It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World
by Tragediane
Summary: A frivolous, nonsensical, gibberish, gobbledygook one shot story. I don't own anything & don't want to, if my muse keeps writing characters who speak pure unadulterated poppycock like this. Reviews welcome.


**I don't own anything. And if this is the way these fine and wonderful characters are gonna act, I don't want to ever own them. **

**I think I've lost my hypothyroidic marbles by writing too many stories in a brief, impermanent, cursory, fleeting, too short of time or is it lightning speed.**

**Write a review or write zero reviews.**

**It's frivolous, nonsensical, gibberish, garbage, balderdash, blather, rubbish, drivel, gobbledygook. Pure unadulterated poppycock.**

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><p><strong>NCIS: Los Angeles and its characters are owned by CBS and the producers of it. I do not own anything, but if I did I would torture G Callen more. I am grateful to CBS and the producers of NCIS: LA for their contribution to the world of entertainment. <strong>

**My stories are a work of my imagination and I do **_**not**_** ascribe them to official story canon. This is a work intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by CBS and the producers of NCIS:LA. I gain no profit from the creation and publication of this story. I love to play in the sandbox with the characters and their lives. I especially love to torture G Callen. It is fun!**

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><p>It's a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad—<em>[will you get the point]<em>—world, when Hetty makes her specialized infusion of tea and tips it upward for everyone on the team to see. The new flavor burns memories in their aliases before they can use them. Hetty stokes the special solution of simmering tea leaves with her bourbon. A tea party ensues in Hetty's head. Suddenly, somehow, Hetty eyes the man of her dreams floating like an apparition across the floor, wearing a fedora and a trench coat. Hetty giggles seeing him flitter across the headquarter's open air floor space. Hetty's eyelids flutter like the wings of a moth shot with an electric typewriter, the one she wishes she had. In Hetty's bourbon washed mind, Hetty kisses him under the mistletoe and his face explodes like a Ford Exploder. Surprisingly, slowly, Hetty slides from her chair, teetering across the floor with her teacup gingerly balanced with her diminutive, dainty, delicate, lithe, graceful, supple, thin fingers.

When Callen sees the man, his blue eyes light up like a blowtorch. Sam's eyes burst forth into brownish mud puddles spilling the brown goo all over the bullpen. Kensi's unusual dark eyes bulge outward like hyperthyroidic marbles. Deeks's eyes burn holes through the bullpen's iron lattice work causing the structure to melt or did it frelt?

On closer inspection, Hetty realizes the man of her dreams was dressed in a gaudy lime green and bright purple polka dotted shirt. He matches the gaudy shirt with chartreuse and burnt orange toned pants stippled in bright blue pinstripes. Hetty's eyes bulge and widen like gigantic tiddly winks, spinning in their globes. Hetty thinks of only one thing, he reminds her of a missile with no warhead. [_Hetty, Hetty, Hetty, Hetty, oh did I say that already?]_ Hetty forgets about the stairs as she focuses on the dream-like man floating before her and falls ass over a tea kettle onto the floor. The flittering, floating man lifts Hetty up and they swoon by the moon light as it filters throughout NCIS Headquarters.

Eric plays the faggot _[for the uninformed and uneducated—a bassoon]_ signaling the team to float up the stairs to the second floor.

When Callen reaches the audacious OPS Center Sam exclaims wildly, "G, you're one taco short of a combination plate, today."

"Only one?" Callen frowns his eyebrows growing together with intensity, gluing themselves to each other. "Well, didn't you know it's darkest before the dawn, the light's on in your head but someone forgot to tell you they're home."

"That's because I'm suffering from an existential angst."

"Oh really? I had that last week."

"Me too and with a fulminating case of transmogrification, resulting in philosophical concerns with existence and theories of affirmation and implication," Deeks interrupts with a vitriolic, acrimonious, rancorous, trenchant barb.

"What he means is," Kensi begins her daily diatribe, haranguing on the helpless, handsome man, her hapless fellow worker half, "appellations appeal to Deeks's driven dialogue dancing mindlessly in his heavy-laden head among heart-felt humor."

"In short," Callen reiterates, "he's two fries short of a Happy Meal®."

Eric shatters their raillery with a vivid video of cloak-and-dagger activities. "The intelligencer, intelligence agent walks a double agent line with a doppelgänger, going alias, government owned, paradise of its own. Espionage subterfuges all infiltration forcing moles to scout out snooper agents and counterspies."

"Run that by me again, Eric, our low-tech, high-tech, cutting edge, super sleuthing, surveillance expert," Callen recapitulates.

"In essence, there is not kith or kin to these super spies."

"To summarize, G-man, don't mind if I call you the name by which all super spies wish to be known, a spy is a spy is a spy is a spy is a spy or by another name espy, nevertheless, we are unlike those notwithstanding in whatever way possible, because we've become the greatest spies on earth, the underneath the earth spies, the undercover spies, oops or is it the ops, one will never know the authenticity and factuality of our unvarnished, unelaborated, really happened, and well-documented yet fallacious, fabricated, two-faced, and double-crossing sobriquets," Sam regurgitates.


End file.
